Like Peaches
by Emily Baudouin
Summary: Hermione is unable to continue to be with Ron. His insecurities have accumulated into a drinking problem, and she can't drown with him anymore. *  3 years post war. ronxhermione future viktorxhermione. Rated m for sexual and alcohol abuse including rape *
1. Chapter 1

He tasted bitter and dry, flesh hard yet tender like an unripe peach. The acrid tang of alcohol swallowed her up, her cheeks roughened and burned by his sandpaper skin. It wasn't until she felt them stinging that she realized she was crying. Her lips blistered, mauled by his unyielding touch. A strangled grunt of a sob escaped at their parting and she gasped for breath. He stiffened and collapsed on top of her. She hurt all over, muscles strained and jerked.

He hadn't meant to be so rough. He never meant to be so rough. It was just that he lost control when he drank and the next morning left him bewildered and crushed with self loathing. He never beat her, that much she was grateful for. No bruises, no broken skin. No blackened eyes, just bloodshot and swollen. How could a man rape his wife, he would slur, "Don't you want me?" She would demure, reassuring him that she did. She was always reassuring him. A boy, jealous and insecure was now a man, possessive and demanding.

"Of course I love you."

"I would never leave you."

"It's always been you."

"You are my everything."

She was tired. Tired of being controlled, tired of being taken. His morning apologies meant nothing when nothing changed. He would beg and plead and break down until she soothed his tormented mind. Of course, the only thing that could really smooth over a thousand painful memories and feelings of inferiority was his vice. His only vice, he would remind her, as if that made it okay. But she stayed. She stayed and stayed and stayed. She used to think it was because she loved him. Now she wasn't so sure. How could someone love something so ruined? Something sweet but with decay, falling apart with every gentle touch and weeping rancid tears. He was crushing her slowly and bringing her down with him. She knew this. She used to delude herself that she could raise him up, but she couldn't. All her genius could not save her from her naiveté. Her rational, cool logic worked against her, letting her convince herself that with this method or that it would change and it never changed. But now she'd learned.

He rolled off her, hot and sticky. A mass of dead weight. His heavy breathing, even and untroubled was beautiful. Sweet black sleep, dreamless and numb. He would be comatose for the rest of the night, she could move freely. She showered, dressed and packed. At last she stood over him, brushing his ginger hair with the tips of her fingers and savoring the baby softness. She was overwhelmed by a sense of loss. He looked so much like the boy she'd fallen for, who'd loved her so much. Her lips brushed his and she was gone.

x-x-x

A/N

Please review! I appreciate any and all feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

She appeared on the door step of that familiar tavern, warm gold light spilling from the window. The late autumn night raged behind. The wind whipped her hair and tore at her dress; threatening to rip her into the street, to leave her as exposed and raw like so much shame. Her fingers ran the length of the door, one hand paused on the handle. The grain beneath her fingers was soft and smooth, familiar bumps and crevices polished by the weather and a thousand students eager hands. She wept then, forehead pressed against the wood, slipping down. She slumped, graceless in her grief. Her hand raised impotently, scratching without strength or conviction. Her sobs were silent, mouth wide and eyes rolled back. Her face burned with every tear, the cold indifferent to her pain.

She drew her knees into her chest, elbows tucked and hands clutching at her hair. She shook with the violence of her weeping, loud now and jarring like a drunks laugh. The light which had illuminated her from above now vanished. It made little difference. What shook her at last was the blistering cold setting in her bones. She sniffed, groaning and wiping at her face with her sleeve. A cough rose from her throat, jerking her shoulders forward. The wind made short work of the damp clinging to her skin, but did little for the soaked collar and hair. She groaned again, the sound reminiscent of the sick, and breathed deeply through her mouth. Her ached and chattered and she felt weak as she stood. Clearing her throat noisily, creaking open the door and shuffling inside.

Madam Rosmerta had long since gone to bed. A small set of candles was left burning for a house elf, who stood with its back to her, sweeping dutifully. It was dressed in a neatly pressed wool pillow case, with holes cut for arms and head. The nubby material was once white, now yellowed with age. An old tea towel was knotted round its waist.

"Could I get a room for the night, please?" She remembered the days when she had campaigned for the equal rights treatment of house elves. She thought of Dobby, who'd loved his freedom and Winky, who'd been destroyed by it. The house elf who had been sweeping before her squeaked something obsequious and scrambled behind the counter, hauling the massive guest book from beneath. It was filled with names and dates, flourishing signatures and pages well worn with the passage of time. She added her name. Gold exchanged hands. Her bag was taken from her as the elf led the way up the stairs. It seemed like a long time ago that she would have argued, insisted on carrying it herself. Now she was numb and indifferent.

She shuffled through, noticing nothing. Her eyes focused on the air in front of her, movements automated. The seconds seemed imperceivable, jerked suddenly from her empty reverie by the sudden halt. The elf unlocked the door and placed her case just beyond. She took the key and slipped inside, murmuring empty pleasantries.

Her mind focused vaguely on the laundry list that needed immediate attention. She thought back to her still sleeping lover, wishing things were different. A leave of absence, informing family and friends. Her eyes clouded over, glazed by more tears. Failure, failure, failure. An admission of inadequacy, inviting judgment, questions, looks. Hermione Granger was incapable of creating a solution. Hermione Granger had failed at something that mattered. Her first love had died in her arms without ever making a sound, but it was no excuse.

She dropped her coat, letting it tumble with a shrug. She crawled on the bed, curling up in its centre and sinking in. The mattress was soft, stuffed with feathers and clothed with sheets creamy soft. She hoped it would swallow her, hiding her away. Her unshed tears bled from the corner of her eye, spreading on the sheet. Her hand covered the spot as it cooled, tracing the edges with her nail. Outside the wind screamed, rattling the shutters, desperate to come in.

She swallowed and closed her eyes, sliding her hands beneath her chin, cocooning the band on her finger. The band with the polished stone, uncut but flawless in its sparkle, just like her. The ring that said he'd keep her forever, protected and loved. It was a beautiful lie, it sounded so true when he'd said it. Finally she slipped beneath the surface of sleep, welcoming its dark embrace.

A/N: I was overwhelmed by the response! 15 reviews? HOLY COW! Shucks, I'm all pleased with myself. I tried to make this a little chapter longer, I hope you liked it. They'll get longer and more natural as the story progresses. I'd like to hear your opinion, so if you have any suggestions, or notice mistakes that I might have passed over, please let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was just rising when she woke. In the night she had migrated in the centre of the bed to the edge, limbs flailed and dress hiked over one leg. She cleared her throat and slid into a sitting position. Bleary eyes squinted in the early morning light, head aching and mouth dry. Her belly was turning somersaults and her temples throbbed. A hand absent-mindedly adjusted the hem of her dress, feet swinging over the side. For a moment, the night before was like a dream. The dull film of morning and waking up taking precedence over anything else. Her eyes stung wildly, aggravated by the steadily increasing light. She sat for several minutes, smoothing the covers beside her and slouching. She glanced at her watch. It was only 6:45. She considered the benefits of returning to sleep but knew better. Her tendencies of strict efficiency had always prevented lazy lie ins, causing tension between herself and Ron more than once. A memory drifted across her mind and she smiled. It felt unnatural after the passionate grief she had expressed just hours ago. Things looked different in the morning.

With that she stood and surveyed the room. A door, slightly cracked, located beside the provided wardrobe would be the most logical place to look for a bathroom. Walking past she was confronted by her reflection and what she saw was not pretty. Her lip was cracked from his violent kiss, scabbed over now and swollen. The skin around her eyes was bloated and pink, the rest of her face pale and drained and sallow. Save, of course, for raw patches along her jaw that his stubbled skin had inflamed and rubbed against. Her eyes were bloodshot, squinted nearly shut and partially crusted over. She ran a finger over her lip, pressing it gently to test the pain. Purple and blue were beginning to blossom around the chap. She turned a critical eye to her hair, bushy at the best of times and now a veritable nest. Her dress was crinkled, the slip beneath exposed where buttons had come undone. She cleared her throat again, noting the dull ache that the action accompanied.

She half stumbled, shuffled into the bathroom and directly to the bath. The floor beneath her feet was cold stone tile in a warm terracotta, the fixtures around her were porcelain. Above the sink was a large, gilt framed mirror, the width of which extended over the bath, managed to cover most of the wall. single narrow window fed light into the small room, diffused by flimsy linen curtains. She leaned across and slid them open; the cheerful beams multiplied by the mirror, alleviating the dreary atmosphere considerably. She turned to the task of filling the tub, momentarily amused by the presence of multiple faucets. She had longed periodically for the luxury of the prefects bath. Turning the first knob released a spray of steaming water, the second cold. Soon the room was hazy and she disrobed, discarding her clothes on the floor like ugly rags. She slowly submerged herself, eyes shut tightly. She did not want to see the bruises that she knew marred her hips and thighs. The water felt good against her skin, scalding where it met dry flesh. It felt clean. It felt like it could burn away the film that coated her constantly; the filth that clung no matter how hard she scrubbed. The heat raised goosebumps and coloured her sallow skin red. It threw up steam like it would protect her from the eyes of the world, a cloaking mist that left no window or mirror clear. She slid beneath the surface and felt the world go silent, sounds like echoes that struggled to reach her ears. She was held in a cocoon of weightlessness and warmth, coddled and protected. It was peace, but it was all too temporary. Her mind wandered from delicious blank to the day and what it held.

The ministry would open at 8:30. She had received an offer to transfer to the department of mysteries a week before. She had deliberated over the idea since, though Ron had been less than enthusiastic with the idea. To him all it was was the secrets that she would keep from him, but she felt unchallenged as an auror. She had been on the cusp of declining the offer, the need to placate Ron combined with not wanting to develop a reputation. It was not too long ago that she had worked for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, which she had left due to frustration over her inability to affect change. Now the threat of interacting with the man she had just left held priority. She knew if she saw him, she would go back. He would convince her, tell her how much she needed him. Sell her another story of changed ways and a new beginning. It was not in her to refuse him, not anymore.

Her mind was made up, her plan formed. He would not be at the office until 9, he never was. He relied on her to wake him, and today she wouldn't be there. With this thought, she emerged from the water. It clung to her, trying to suck her down. She was loathe to leave its embrace, so like a mothers touch but she had dallied long enough. She pulled the plug and wiped a spot clean on the mirror. She was restored, cheeks burning and hair glossy. Her eyes had lost some of their bloodshot appearance and the swelling had decreased. She would attract little notice.

She dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, again avoiding the mirror and shutting her eyes as she pulled on grey wool tights. She tucked the blouse in at the waist, tightening and retying the skirt's belt to accommodate for the weight she had lost since she'd bought it. She braided her still damp hair, unwilling to fight with it as she usually did. She didn't bother with makeup, only placed some all purpose salve on her mangled lip, erasing the split but leaving the bruise mostly intact. There seemed little point in arranging any other accommodations while her place here was yet unknown and so she unpacked her things. She felt disinclined to going down to the desk, but uncomfortable with leaving gold and a note. Steeling herself, she donned her work robes and left the room.

She arranged for a weeks stay, allowing herself time to plan before figuring out the next step. She felt sick to think that her entire life was wrapped inside his arms, all her friends, the family that had adopted her as one of their own. Would she have to leave it behind? It was far from fair that he could take so much from her. There was no wizarding world without Ron, but she was left with little choice.

The lobby was far from crowded as she apparated in, the morning rush not yet begun. She walked quickly, eyes on the ground. She was wary of meeting any friends or coworkers, disinclined to chat and even less to explain the bruise that still coloured her lip. Ordinarily, the clack of her heels against the marble gave her a feeling of empowerment, a feeling like a child gets from playing dress up. Finally old enough to wear big girl shoes like mommy wears. Today the loud snap reminded her of nails like those pounded into a coffin. Every step taken took her away and killed who she used to be. Changing jobs like a confession to failure, but the failure remained, confessed or not. It was better this way. She was running but not from some imaginary fear. This was no boogey man under the bed, leaving chills and nervous giggles. Can you call a man a coward for running from a gun?

Being lost in thought left her careless. Her mind jerked with her shoulder, coming down from the storm clouds of her mind. She'd been bumped by a man going the opposite direction, the sound of a thousand conversations suddenly filling her ears, lights coming into focus. She turned with the blow, her ankle rolled; those same heels making her clumsy. She grabbed at the first solid thing in her path, her assailant's jacket. "Sorry," she blurted, catching her balance. She was not elegant, her face bore an expression like a rabbit hunted. She was hunched, now letting go of the strangers lapel. She felt like a fool and lurched away, ignoring the mans comments of concern.

"Hermi-o-ninny?"

A/N(warning: it'll be a long one.): I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, especially those who offered advice and said kind things. I tried to address the issues pointed out, and I will most certainly re-visit the second chapter to try and improve the flow. To those of you who were wondering about my own mental state: no, I'm not depressed. Really, I swear! The dark imagery and quality is an attempt on my part to try an capture the hopelessness and struggle of someone in this sort of situation. Perhaps I went a liiiittle overboard. I've been using this as a de-stresser; when I come home from classes, or finish homework, I write a little bit to unwind.

I've found that it's challenging to incorporate the same level of imagery and metaphor while actually telling a story. It sort of gets in the way, if I make myself clear. It gets to a point that it's ridiculous. Any suggestions on how to overcome that are really welcome! Krum is going to start appearing more heavily by the middle of next chapter, right now I'm just trying to set the stage and establish the story. Don't worry!

Please review and be as (constructively) critical as you can, you won't hurt my feelings.


	4. AUTHOR UPDATEI'm not dead

Hi guys!

I know you're all waiting on the edge of your seats for the next dramatic installment of this epic. I swear to god a new update is coming soon. Like, in the next week. I have half the next chapter written, it's just been so busy lately. I'm sorry for the 2 month gap.

Also for disappointing you by making you think this was an actual story update. I'm just letting you know I'm alive, and WILL UPDATE SOON! Super soon. Sorry.

I think you're all great and I want you to know that when I'm writing the chapters I read your reviews and suggestions and try to use them as much as possible!

Thanks for reading! Seriously, like 3 days, maximum.

E. Baudouin


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